


15-Mastering

by WritestuffLee



Series: The Warrior's Heart, Volume 4, The Long Shadow [15]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: AU, BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-19
Updated: 2007-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:39:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritestuffLee/pseuds/WritestuffLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi-Wan learns to be a master to his padawan and his lover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	15-Mastering

**Author's Note:**

> Art by Cajolerisms

“Like this,” Obi-Wan said. “Watch my feet.” He demonstrated the footwork for the kata once more as Jicky watched. It was a far more complicated one than she’d attempted before and they’d been working on it for some time. Obi-Wan could see her frustration was mounting, but he thought they would give it one more try before moving on to something else. “Now you. Just the footwork.”

Lips pressed together, Jicky tried again, and nearly got it. She hesitated a moment, got flustered, and then stopped, staring miserably at the floor. “I can’t do this,” she whispered, her breath hitching.

Obi-Wan knelt down in front of her and lifted her chin, so they were eye to eye. Hers were filled with tears. “What makes you think that, little one? Because it’s not so. I know you can,” he said with confidence.

“I can’t! I’m such a clod! Master Freknok was right.”

This didn’t sound good at all. Why couldn’t the creche masters be more careful with their opinions? “What did Master Freknok say to you, Jicky?” he asked gently.

“That I’d, I’d n-never be anything b-but a l-librarian!” She was crying openly now, in little hiccupy sobs, but trying to control herself.

Obi-Wan thought his heart would break. Clearly, he’d pushed her too far today. They had only been working together for a little more than two tens now, and were still figuring each other out. While it was true that Jicky’s strengths lay more in the intellectual realms, there was nothing wrong with her physical skills that a little attention wouldn’t cure. Or so Obi-Wan believed.

He rubbed her thin little arms. “Jicky, listen to me. Master Freknok was wrong. Clearly the Force thinks you’re more than what’s in your head, or you wouldn’t be my padawan. This is a difficult kata—”

“And I can’t do it! I’m not good enough!” She broke away from him and ran from the salle, leaving Obi-Wan behind her, flummoxed and almost equally unhappy with himself.

He didn’t go after her, sensing she wanted to be alone to cry and to calm herself again, but it was difficult not to. Instead, he collected her things with his own and went back to their quarters.

 

Qui-Gon was already there, marking essays from one of his classes with a deep frown on his face, muttering to himself.

“I see we’ve had equally good days in the educational trenches,” Obi-Wan observed sourly, tossing his and Jicky’s work-out kits in a heap near the door.

Qui-Gon looked up from his datapad, expression smoothing into pleasure at Obi-Wan’s appearance in sweaty training togs. “Where’s Jicky?” he asked with a glint in his eye that quickly died at Obi-Wan’s answer.

“No idea. She ran off crying after our latest lesson in the salles,” Obi-Wan sighed, morosely flinging himself onto the sofa. “She’s been working so hard and gone so far in the last few days that I thought I’d try teaching her the Fair Winds kata. Obviously that was not a good choice.”

“Perhaps not,” Qui-Gon agreed, “if it’s frustrated her that much. Jicky doesn’t strike me as someone who gives up easily.”

“No, I don’t think she is. But that idiot Freknok has her half convinced she’s only fit to be a librarian.”

“She loves reading, certainly,” Qui-Gon acknowledged, “which perhaps explains how the physical side of her education has been somewhat neglected. I know you’ve been starting to push her a little more to where you think she should be.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Perhaps I’m comparing her too much to where I was at her age. She did fine when we were on Naboo.”

“She did very well indeed,” Qui-Gon said, then fell silent.

Obi-Wan eyed him suspiciously. “But?” he prompted.

“May I offer some advice?”

“Please do. I feel I need all the help I can get at the moment. And what’s the use of living with a man who’s had three padawans, otherwise?”

Qui-Gon grandly ignored the gentle jibe. “Have you thought about teaching her to fly?” he suggested.

“Aerials? She hasn’t got all the basics down yet.” Obi-Wan objected, surprised.

“Neither had you, if I remember correctly. You wanted to fly so badly you half taught yourself. Aerials are exciting at that age, and motivating. Jicky’s size, I think, might make her quite a good aerialist, especially with her telekinetic abilities. And that might give her the confidence to achieve the harder katas. It should also give her strength and agility she’s lacking right now.”

“Work with her current strengths, in other words.”

“Precisely. Not every padawan follows the same training path.”

“It’s not the same as teaching a class, is it?” Obi-Wan half-sighed, a bit frustrated himself.

“Nothing like it at all. Though I’d like to hand you this lot and see them whipped into shape by the infamous Taskmaster Kenobi,” Qui-Gon growled. “Bloody arrogant fools.”

“Senior padawans?” Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow in surprise. Qui-Gon usually had a good relationship with his students.

“Masters seminar in negotiation,” Qui-Gon replied, and Obi-Wan laughed.

 

Jicky crept home a few hours later, just after lastmeal, looking shamefaced and red-eyed. She immediately went to her knees in front of Obi-Wan and started the ritual Act of Penance. Obi-Wan stopped her before she got much of it out.

“There’s no need for that, Padawan,” he said gently, kneeling beside her and stroking her hair as she knelt with her face to the floor. “It’s a poor teacher who drives his student to tears.”

She peeked up at him for a moment and sat up gingerly, surprised. “You’re not mad?”

Obi-Wan shook his head. “No, Jicky. What happened was far more my fault than yours. You’ve been trying so hard and doing so well that I thought you were ready for something that you’re not. There’s nothing wrong with not being ready. We’ll just try something different. How would you like to learn some aerials?”

“Fly? Like you, Master?” Jicky’s face lit up like a sunrise. “Can I?”

“Yes, I believe you can, Padawan,” Obi-Wan confirmed, mirroring her smile with a relief that nearly equaled his padawan’s. “Now, how about a little dinner before you do your homework? I’ve kept it warm for you.”

 

As usual, both Jicky and Qui-Gon went off to bed earlier than Obi-Wan, whose internal clock ran to later nights and rising after the sun was well up, when left to his own devices. Exhausted by her crying jag, Jicky went earlier than usual, once she’d eaten and done her homework. Qui-Gon, still struggling with his recalcitrant students’ work, went a bit later than normal.

As his master, Qui-Gon had felt no compunctions about making young Padawan Kenobi conform to his own schedule, occasionally letting the boy sleep in as a treat or reward. When Obi-Wan had reached senior padawan rank, Qui-Gon had let him keep his own hours, when possible. As lovers, they’d come to an accommodation in their preferred schedules: Obi-Wan didn’t wake his former master when he padded in to their bed in the middle of the night, and Qui-Gon didn’t wake his former padawan when he rose at the crack of dawn a few hours later. Sex tended to happen spontaneously earlier in the evening or sometimes after breakfast, though Jicky’s presence had interjected the necessity for more discretion and planning. And of late, Obi-Wan was still highly skittish about it, needing a good deal of foreplay and preferring to initiate it himself.

So Obi-Wan was surprised at the sight greeting him in their room that evening. It wasn’t just that Qui-Gon was still awake, unusual enough as that was. It was that he was awake and on his knees. Fleetingly, Obi-Wan thought he might be meditating, but only fleetingly. Perhaps it was the thick leather collar around his throat that gave it away. Or the fact that Qui-Gon was otherwise naked. Well, except for the cock ring.

Heat began to pool in Obi-Wan’s groin. Heat and desire and . . . something else.

He stalked his former master, making as wide a circuit around him as the room would allow, admiring the view. Qui-Gon said nothing, merely knelt with his eyes downcast, his knees spread, the hands on his thighs framing a rampant erection, waiting. Finally, Obi-Wan walked up to him, stopped between his spread knees and sifted with one hand through Qui-Gon’s hair.

“This is a nice surprise,” he said quietly, and lifted Qui-Gon’s chin.

The older man’s eyes remained downcast. “I’m glad my master is pleased,” he murmured.

“Very pleased,” Obi-Wan agreed, and leaned down for a punishing kiss that left them both breathing quickly. “But why now?”

Qui-Gon looked up at last. “You’d mentioned it when we were on Naboo but seemed hesitant to act on it. I thought I might . . . encourage you.”

Obi-Wan smiled. “You’re a very pushy sub.”

“I’ve been told that before,” Qui-Gon acknowledged with a faint smile.

“Oh, have you? By whom, if I may ask?”

“My other doms,” Qui-Gon replied with mischief in his eyes.

Obi-Wan laughed quietly. “All right. I can take a hint. Limits?”

Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow. “Do we need to discuss them?”

Obi-Wan seemed to falter at that, losing his humor. “I don’t know, Qui. And that tells me I should.”

“I trust you, love. But if it would make you feel better, we’ll set limits.”

“It would.”

“Very well, then: no marks that would be visible in the salles, no choking, no burning, no cutting,” Qui-Gon said.

Obi-Wan shivered a little at the last limit, and looked puzzled. “That’s a very wide field, Qui. And I know you don’t like pain.”

“Do you?” Qui-Gon replied. “Are you certain you know everything about me, Master Kenobi?”

“My, you are full of surprises, Master Jinn,” Obi-Wan said in a soft and dangerous voice. “Safeword?”

“I think ‘philosophy’ will do in this instance, too,” Qui-Gon replied. “How much . . . cooperation do you expect from your sub?”

“I expect he’ll be his usual wayward, stubborn, intractable self,” Obi-Wan said, his smile returning.

“Intractable?” Qui-Gon raised an eyebrow.

“Just so,” Obi-Wan affirmed.

“As you wish, my master.” Qui-Gon pressed his forehead to the floor and waited for Obi-Wan to begin.

Obi-Wan let him wait for a few minutes while he admired the curve of the man’s back and the thick head of greying hair falling loosely over his shoulders and onto the floor. Finally, he touched his sub’s head. “Sit up—hmmm, what do I call you?”

Qui-Gon sat up again, hands on his thighs, eyes downcast, in role. “Whatever my master wishes,” he replied in a tone just this side of surliness.

“Unhelpful, as usual,” Obi-Wan complained, idly running his fingers through his sub’s thick hair then suddenly fisting them there, pulling hard to one side. He stepped close again, rubbing his groin against the older man’s face. His sub mouthed him obediently. “Perhaps something will occur to me later. When you’ve earned it. Right now, I’m going to use your lovely mouth. Undress me. Slowly.”

“Yes, my master,” the man murmured, reaching for the bottom of Obi-Wan’s undertunic.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes as the man’s big hands glided slowly across his chest, pushing the tunic up and off his torso, to his shoulders, over his head, down along his arms. He heard it fall softly to the floor, waited for those hands to return as they usually did, to caress him. Instead, they moved on to the fastenings of his pants.

Obi-Wan grabbed another handful of hair and pulled. “Slowly, I said. With attention. Use your mouth and your hands. Like you enjoy it, whether you do or not.”

The man’s hands slid up Obi-Wan’s torso again, from waist to nipples, his mouth following along behind with nips and licks and suction in all the right places, but with a certain reluctance. Obi-Wan closed his eyes, his hand still fisted in his sub’s thick hair. Eventually, he let go and allowed the sensations to wash through him, laying his hands on the man’s shoulders. There was a scrape of beard against his nipple and then a hard bite that made Obi-Wan start and jerk away. His fingers closed almost automatically on the collar and yanked hard, pulling a grunt of pain from Qui-Gon—

—and the moment was broken for Obi-Wan. This wasn’t what he wanted. It felt wrong.

“Philosophy,” he whispered, fingers unbuckling the collar and smoothing the abraded skin beneath with a touch of healing Force.

“Are you all right, _kosai_?” Qui-Gon said, looking up at him with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do this, Qui. I can’t dom like this. It feels too much like—I feel . . . too much like her.” _She_ was the Agency operative who had been Obi-Wan’s final torturer, the one who had flayed and crushed his hands and done the most damage to his spirit. As far as Obi-Wan knew, she hadn’t yet given up a name to her interrogators, hence the pronoun. He dropped the collar on the floor and combed his hands through Qui-Gon’s hair. “Come to bed.”

“May I  finish undressing you?”

Obi-Wan smiled. “If you like. Then take that damned cock ring off.”

Qui-Gon went back to what he’d been doing, but the sensations were different now, clearly coupled with love and affection rather than given grudgingly—a testament to Qui-Gon’s ability to playact. The big man’s hands slid beneath the waistband of Obi-Wan’s pants while he pulled the drawstring loose with his teeth. In a moment, the trousers were slithering downward and Qui-Gon’s mouth was following, over the crest of Obi-Wan’s hip, the join of his leg, over his cock as the cloth pooled around his ankles. Obi-Wan stepped out of them and drew Qui-Gon to his feet and into his arms.

“Put me where you want me,” Qui-Gon murmured into his ear, making him shiver. Qui-Gon’s warm breath and hot words threw another switch in Obi-Wan’s head, one he was a little afraid of but couldn’t seem to turn off again.

“Over the bench,” he replied, his voice suddenly hard. “Face down, over the bench.”

Qui-Gon obeyed, pulling it out a little and kneeling in front of it. Obi-Wan found the lube and pushed Qui-Gon over farther until he was on his chest. “Bend over. Hold on.”

“I’ll just take off—”

“No, leave it on. I’ve changed my mind. You’ll come when I let you.”

 

Qui-Gon smiled to himself. He’d suspected the other scenario would be less to Obi-Wan’s liking than one of his own, but at least he had managed to jumpstart something. Even before the night on Naboo when Obi-Wan had turned the tables on him and yet been so troubled about it later, Qui-Gon had sensed something like this building in his lover. And it was something Obi-Wan couldn’t seem to bring himself to explore without some coaxing.

Since his knighting, Obi-Wan had topped more often, but now, suddenly, he was more aggressive about it, blurring the line between topping and dominating. Qui-Gon was certain this was a consequence of his last mission and his resulting aversion to being restrained or helpless in any way. Since they’d started making love again, Obi-Wan had topped almost exclusively, if not always consciously. And he hadn’t yet been able to bring himself to admit his need to dom. He wanted “more control” but not, it seemed, all of it. Yet.

Obi-Wan stood behind him now, one hand caressing his flank while the other, slick with lube, trailed up his perineum and circled the tight muscle of his opening. Slowly, Obi-Wan worked a finger inside, then two, and began to finger-fuck him, brushing his prostate at irregular intervals. Qui-Gon shuddered and bucked against him, pushing back into him, until Obi-Wan slapped his ass hard, leaving a stinging handprint and stilling him. Qui-Gon obeyed with increasing difficulty, small noises of need turning into moans of frustration as his arousal, already denied too long, built to unbearable levels.

“Obi-Wan—please! Gods—please . . .”

“Shut up! Shut up, _furyo_ ,” Obi-Wan snarled in a nearly unrecognizable voice. _Furyo._ “Prisoner of war” in Danjii. The word startled Qui-Gon in its alienness. The bond between them was suddenly filled with the same scorched metal taste of Obi-Wan’s worst days and that worried him. So did the fact that Obi-Wan didn’t seem to be aware of whom he was speaking to, much less fucking. But there was no sense of danger or darkness, only a deep and desperate need.

There were three fingers now, driving into him almost brutally, stretching him open with more haste than care. It didn’t hurt much, filled as he was with endorphins, but he knew he would feel it later and didn’t care. The truth was, the persona he called “obstreperous Obi-Wan” had always excited him, and this persona was a step beyond that.

“Up. This way,” Obi-Wan ordered finally, pushing him roughly with hands on his hips. “I’m going to fuck you, _furyo_.”

Qui-Gon ended up nearly bent double over the bench, bracing himself on the low footboard, ass in the air. as Obi-Wan pushed his slick cock inside and began a pounding rhythm. Qui-Gon let his head drop, hanging onto his balance precariously and his mind with less success as repeated charges of pleasure flowed up his spine from his prostate. His balls ached with long-delayed climax, the wide band of the leather cock ring digging into his flesh. Obi-Wan had positioned him so he needed both hands (or the Force) for balance, so there was no way to loosen it, though the urge was so strong it made him twist and buck and flex his hands on the footboard. Anyone seeing them might have easily mistaken what was happening for something non-consensual.

Obi-Wan’s hands were so hard on his hips that he knew there would be bruises in the morning. Now, one of them closed on the back of his neck, holding him down as Obi-Wan’s other hand reached for the cock ring and unsnapped it. Qui-Gon heard himself sob with relief as his orgasm ripped through him like an electrical storm, Obi-Wan pounding into him with guttural groans in his own release. The room whited out for an instant and when he could see again, he was on his knees leaning against the bench with Obi-Wan lying against his back, both of them gasping. Qui-Gon could feel sweat trickling over his skin and suspected it was more than that from the irregularity of Obi-Wan’s breathing.

“ _Kosai_ ,” he murmured tenderly, turning.

Obi-Wan leaned back, his eyes bright and expression anguished.“I’m so sorry, Qui! I didn’t—”

“Hush, love.” Qui-Gon cupped his cheek in one hand and kissed him to stop the apology. Without the beard he looked so much younger that it brought out all Qui-Gon’s protective instincts, as though Obi-Wan were still a padawan. “Nothing to be sorry for. On the contrary.”

“I used you—”

“—after I offered myself. Stop it, love. Ten minutes ago I was wearing a collar and pretending to be your reluctant slave. This was so much better because it was what _you_ wanted. That was my whole point. To give you what you wanted. What you needed.”

Shuddering, Obi-Wan closed his eyes and folded his hands in his lap, breathing deliberately to gain some equilibrium again. Slowly, the scorched metal taste left the bond, though what was left was more like the dregs of sweet tea than the fresh cup. After a bit, he opened his eyes again, still frowning. “Did you at least enjoy it?” Obi-Wan asked sourly.

“Very much indeed, _kosai_.” He could feel Obi-Wan testing the truth of his words in their bond, so he leaned in and kissed him again. “Very much,” he repeated. Only that one thing had disturbed him: the moments when Obi-Wan had lost himself in some other place in his own head. “Let’s clean up and go to bed. We’ll talk there, if you need to.”

But they didn’t talk. When they’d tidied up themselves and the room and gotten into bed, Obi-Wan, at least, fell into a troubled sleep immediately. Qui-Gon lay awake for a time as Obi-Wan tossed beside him, pondering that word, _furyo,_ wondering where it had come from and what it meant about his partner’s state of mind.

 

It seemed hardly surprising when, for the first time in several tens, Obi-Wan suffered another flashback.

Qui-Gon’s first awareness of it was of a soft whine, like an injured animal, a sound less familiar now than it had been, but enough so to pull him from sleep with his heart pounding, instantly alert. Obi-Wan was curled beside him in a small shivering ball, his back pressed against Qui-Gon’s chest, still caught in his nightmare. Qui-Gon curled up around him and stroked his arm slowly, calling his name, giving him some sensation to focus on besides what was running through his head. Finally, Obi-Wan shuddered and gasped, throwing himself back hard against Qui-Gon. The big man was ready for it and caught him, tucking Obi-Wan’s head firmly beneath his chin and holding him tightly, calling his name, until he stopped struggling.

“Qui—Jicky!” he gasped, finally. “My shields—” The bond was filled with the taste of burnt metal again, but Obi-Wan at least seemed to know where he was.

“Shhhh, _kosai_ , she’s fine.”

But almost on cue there was a soft rap at their door and Jicky’s voice outside. “Master? Are you all right? What’s wrong? Master Jinn?”

Qui-Gon turned on the light and with a swift look at Obi-Wan still shivering beneath the covers, threw on his robe and went for the door while the younger man struggled to shake off the effects of the flashback. Behind him, he heard Obi-Wan stumble out of bed for their fresher, retching dryly, even as Qui-Gon was shepherding Jicky back across the common room to her own bed with reassurances about her master’s condition.

By the time they’d reached Jicky’s room, she was telling him to go back. “I just wanted to make sure he was okay. There was some really nasty stuff coming through the bond. But he’s with you. I should have known—”

“Your instincts were right, Jicky,” Qui-Gon told her, tousling her hair gently. “But I’ll take care of things tonight. Another time, it might fall to you, though. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Go back to sleep. Do you want a little help?”

“No thank you, Master Jinn. I’m okay.”

And she did seem to be. Qui-Gon left her to herself, thinking she was an eminently practical young padawan, and that Obi-Wan had chosen well.

His own former padawan was back in bed by the time Qui-Gon returned and climbed in beside him. There was still a faint, sour pong of fear in the sheets but Obi-Wan seemed calmer, if faintly embarrassed. Qui-Gon once again curled up behind him and took the younger man in his arms. Obi-Wan nestled there quietly, until the last of the tension went out of his muscles.

“Thank you, Qui, for looking after Jicky. I don’t think I had any shields up at all during that horror show.”

“She was fine, love. But you’ll need to explain what happened in the morning. And I doubt she’ll settle for anything but the whole, gritty truth.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “No, she’s like that. Not easily bamboozled or put off. And I suppose it’s better to be honest with her anyway so she knows what clay feet her master’s got.”

“Yes, it’s best to disillusion padawans early. Any idea what triggered it? Was it the sex?”

“Probably. Gods, I thought I’d worked through all of this. I thought I was done—”

“And yet, you’re still seeing Tianna on a regular basis, if not daily anymore,” Qui-Gon reminded him gently.

“True. But I haven’t had any flashbacks in so long—not since the hearing.”

“But you had dinner with Bail Organa a few nights ago to bring it all up again, too.”

“You’re right, of course. I’d forgotten about that.” Obi-Wan scrubbed at his face and yawned. “I’m sorry, Qui, it’s wiped me right out.”

“Better than keeping you awake. Go to sleep, _kosai_. I’ll be right here.”

* * *

In the morning, Jicky gave her master a concerned once-over when he appeared, but didn’t quiz him. As usual, she was awake and up not much later than Qui-Gon, but she’d quickly learned to let her master get at least a full cup of tea in him before broaching any subject. He had slept in a little later than usual himself and felt better for it, but the mood left by his flashback seemed to color everything, leaving him jittery and gloomy. Jicky watched him as he went about making his tea and a sparser than usual breakfast. He stroked her hair as he went by her with his cup in one hand, then sat down across from her and nibbled at a piece of toast. Qui-Gon took himself off to deal with his messages at the com to give them some relative privacy.

After a few sips, Obi-Wan put his cup down. “I’m sorry if I frightened you last night, Jicky,” he began. “I should have warned you earlier that this might happen.”

“It wasn’t a Force-sending, was it? Master Yoda talked about those. It didn’t feel like that though.”

“No, there was nothing of the Force in that, you’re right,” he agreed. “It was a flashback. Do you know what those are?”

“You mean like in stories?” She flushed, embarrassed at having her literary vice slip out. “Like a replay of something that’s happened?”

“Yes, like that,” Obi-Wan replied. “But there was nothing fictional about it.”

Jicky sat with that idea for a moment, looking increasingly unhappy. “That was, what I saw—”

“That happened to me. That was me you saw. On the mission where I hurt my hands.”

Jicky looked both sickened and frightened. “Why?” was all she managed to squeeze out.

“Why did it happen to me?” Obi-Wan elaborated her question. She nodded. He explained the nature of the mission to her, and his role in it, and why he’d been tortured.

“You _volunteered_ for that?” Jicky’s eyes widened in horror and astonishment.

Obi-Wan smiled at her incredulity. “Hard to credit anyone being that much a fool, I know. I’m not sure I would again, to be honest. But I have a very high tolerance for pain, and there were other factors, too, like the fact that I’m friends with both Knight Chun and Garen Muln. I was very naive going into that mission, Jicky. And a bit arrogant too. I thought I’d be able to cope with whatever was handed out, because of my training and my own abilities. And I couldn’t. No one could, no matter what their training. The flashbacks are part of, of not coping. But last night was the first I’ve had in a long while.”

“That’s why you’re still seeing the healers, right?”

“For therapy, yes. Physical and psychological therapy.”

“Will you have more?” That, at least, didn’t seem to faze her. “And what should I do when it happens? If Master Jinn’s not here?”

Obi-Wan drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The prospect of more flashbacks frightened him far more than it did his padawan. “I don’t know if I’ll have more, Jicky. I’d thought I’d healed that much, at least, for it not to happen anymore. Apparently, I was wrong. If it happens again . . . if it happens again, call the healers first, then Master Jinn. Don’t try to touch me because I might hurt you without meaning to. I might not realize it’s you or I might think you’re someone else. If I try to leave, just follow and let the others know where I’ve gone. You’re not strong enough to hold me down—”

“Don’t bet on it, Master,” Jicky drawled. “I did a pretty good job on that repulsor pod.”

“So you did,” Obi-Wan admitted, realizing he’d underestimated this girl again. “I’ll let you make that call, then. Just be aware that I’ll struggle. Master Jinn has collected a few bruises that way himself. At any rate, it will end of its own accord after a time.”

“Should I talk to you? Tell you where you are?”

“Sometimes that helps, yes. If you do, use my name, not ‘master.’”

“Okay, then,” she said briskly, making Obi-Wan smile. “I can handle that.”

“I’ve no doubt you can, Padawan. Is there anything else you want to know?”

“I wish I didn’t know about this,” she mumbled, her briskness disappearing again as she looked away.

Obi-Wan quashed a flare of anger, not at her, but at his torturers, who had cut such a swath through his life, leaving not just himself but the people he cared for wounded as well. And how many other lives had they done the same to?

“I think we need to do something about your shields, too, Jicky. When mine fail, you should be able to block me out. There’s no reason you should be frightened and in misery, too.”

“Does Master Jinn block you out?”

“No, but—”

“Me neither, then.”

“That’s your choice, certainly, but you need to be able to block me out if necessary, as it might be in the field. You can’t protect anyone—including yourself—if I’m distracting you. That will do neither of us any good. Master Jinn and I also have a different kind of bond than you and I. We don’t have the direct telepathy you and I have; we can only sense each other’s feelings, physical and emotional.”

“Oh, I see,” Jicky said with a frown. “So he gets your pain and fear but not the pictures.”

That was far more perceptive than Obi-Wan had counted on, and disconcerting. “Yes. And you get—”

“Both. I got both,” she said quietly. She looked him over as though he were a difficult puzzle and he felt the surprisingly delicate touch of her mind against his. He let down several layers of shields for her, letting her see his fear and the scars left by his ordeal. Her probing was very polite and amazingly skilled. He wondered who had tutored her.

 _Master Tiin,_ came the answer. She smiled shyly.

“I suspected as much,” Obi-Wan responded. “He’s an exacting teacher. I’ve worked with him too.”

“He was very nice to me. He’s the only one who could show me how to shut out the noise. I don’t know why I couldn’t shut you out. Maybe I didn’t even try, ‘cause I didn’t understand it. I’m not sure.”

“I don’t know either, Jicky. But we’ll remedy that. I understand from Isa it can be quite a din when you’re a strong telepath. It’s good you’ve gotten it under control while you’re young.”

“Yeah, it’s not always fun knowing what other people are thinking.” She looked away again, or rather, down at his hands, which were wrapped around his cup. “You really were afraid,” she said in a confused voice. He sensed a kind of squeamish fascination from her, but also repulsion, which she attempted to quash. And there was a tension in her he didn’t understand.

“Yes, I was very frightened. Sometimes I still am, like last night.” He felt a shiver of worry from her. “What’s the matter, Jicky?”

“I’m not that brave, Master,” she whispered and looked away, strangely ashamed.

He remembered himself at her age: awkward and clumsy and miserable from being tormented by Bruck and his posse. More worried about his physical abilities than about who he was as a person. And he remembered Siri, too, wailing in the locker room one day: “I am _not_ mean! I have a lot of friends!” Human girls, apparently, worried about these things much earlier than boys.

“You were very brave when I first met you,” Obi-Wan said gently. “Being brave is just doing whatever it is you’re afraid of because it has to be done. I think you’re probably braver than you know, Jicky. ”

“I don’t know if I’m brave enough to be your padawan,” she said with a touch of misery in her voice.

“Do you still want to be a knight?”

She nodded, a fierce, determined look on her face. “Ever since I understood what it was. Ever since you brought me here. I want to help stop the things that happened to me from happening to other people.”

“You know that it’s hard and dangerous, being a Jedi? We often get hurt. Or maimed. Sometimes we get killed.”

She nodded again, grimly. “I know. I understand that. Better than I did before, I think. But I don’t know if I’m brave enough to be _your_ padawan,” Jicky repeated.

“Ah. Yes, I can see where that might be daunting after last night—”

“No! That’s not what I meant, Master!” Now she was annoyed with him, though Obi-Wan knew exactly what she meant. “I’m not afraid of that!”

“Well, Jicky, there’s only one way to find out if you’re brave enough to be my padawan: to keep doing it.”

She nodded solemnly and started to gather her things for class.

 

If the flashback had left him nervous and unhappy, the chat with Jicky didn’t help much. Qui-Gon reemerged from the common room as Jicky headed off to classes, to find Obi-Wan toying with his uneaten toast and cold tea.

“Everything all right?” he asked, taking Jicky’s place across the table.

“More or less, I suppose, aside from the fact that I seem to be doing an admirable job of ruining my padawan’s self-confidence in the first few tens of her apprenticeship.”

“You’ll have to go a long way before you top the initial damage I did to you.”

“Please, let’s not play one-upmanship, shall we? I’m serious.”

“I’m serious too, Master Kenobi. Just by virtue of having made it this far, padawans are far less delicate creatures than you seem to think Jicky is. It’s your job to give them a push when they need it, and rein them in when they need it, and correct their mistakes when they make them, but mostly they find their own way. Jicky’s a bright, resourceful girl and she took your flashback quite in stride last night. I suspect she’ll adapt to just about anything you throw her way, despite her own doubts. Just as you did.”

Obi-Wan sighed. “You’re right, of course. It’s just that I don’t feel adequate to this job, especially not after last night.”

“One never does. But the Force chose you both for each other, now and not some other time. You’ll have to make the best of it, I’m afraid,” Qui-Gon replied in a gently mocking tone.

Obi-Wan looked up and smiled a little. “I suppose so. The least I can do is not repeat my old master’s mistakes.”

“That would be a kindness to everyone,” Qui-Gon agreed, facetiously, then turned serious again. “Obi-Wan, last night, you called me _furyo_ at one point. Where were you then? Where did that come from?”

Obi-Wan looked startled and then a little sick. “She called me that. When she knew who I was.” He ran his still-stiff hands through his hair and clenched them there until Qui-Gon reached over and loosened them gently, brought them down to the table, and covered them with his own.

“Are you seeing Tianna today?”

Obi-Wan nodded. “It’s a good thing too, apparently.”

“Were you somewhere else when we were making love?”

“Is that what we were doing?” Obi-Wan said in a voice thick with sarcasm.

“Not the question I asked,” Qui-Gon said patiently.

“I don’t remember,” Obi-Wan whispered. “And that terrifies me. I could have really hurt you.”

“I would have stopped you.”

“I don’t think a safeword—”

“Physically stopped you. I’m not helpless, _kosai_. Even if you’d tied me up, I’m not helpless.”

“Well, don’t let me tie you,” Obi-Wan said with a dark frown. “Not right now. It’s not safe. I’m not safe.”

* * *

Jicky was waiting for him in the salles at their usual hour. He strolled in wearing work-out clothes but without his saber, as was usual for the time being. No sense in carrying it when he couldn’t yet hold it tightly enough to use it.

His session with Tianna had been somewhat reassuring. She reminded him that she’d already warned him the flashbacks were likely not over, and might never be, but she also reminded him how far he’d come.

“You’re not afraid to leave your quarters any more,” Tianna ticked off her points on slender brown fingers. “You’re sleeping well and your appetite is fine. Your hands are nearly healed and regaining strength. You even managed an impromptu mission on Naboo—and without a flashback. Not to mention you’ve got a new padawan. You’re functioning amazingly well, I’d say. So whatever you’re working out in the bedroom with Qui-Gon, if he’s willing, I’d continue. Just set safe limits for both of you.”

So he was feeling a bit more chipper than when Jicky had left him. And she was eager to begin her flying lessons. They started with basic tumbling and gymnastics, in which Jicky already had quite good skills. Qui-Gon had been right about that: her size and flexibility made her a natural; a little bit more coaching and she’d be an excellent gymnast. Obi-Wan spent time next teaching her how to fall, which would serve her well in hand-to-hand as well as when a move didn’t go quite the way she’d planned. And before they quit for the day, Obi-Wan gave her a taste of what was to come by having her do a flip, lofting her into the air much higher than she would normally go, and letting her drop lightly onto her feet. Her eyes were huge and round with excitement when she landed.

“That’s what it feels like when someone else is holding you up, which we’ll do until you get used to it. Then you’ll learn to give yourself a boost up, which is actually much easier, because it’s your own timing. I’ll just be there to spot you. I think in a very short time you’ll have this down, padawan. You did well today.”

“Thanks, Master!” Jicky chirped, bouncing along beside him like a small bird on a spring day. Obi-Wan found it was impossible not to be infected by her mood.

 

It carried over into dinner and the rest of the evening, too. There was no flashback that night, nor in the days or nights following and, after that brief disruption, the three of them settled back into the quiet and unusually domestic routine of classes, meals, study, training and—for Obi-Wan—continuing appointments with various healers. These were now reduced to three physical therapy sessions per ten and sessions with Tianna twice each ten; if he kept on at this rate, Tianna planned to reduce it to once each ten soon. Qui-Gon went away briefly on a short treaty negotiation, handing his master’s seminar over to Obi-Wan as threatened. He returned six days later to find them suitably chastened, which Obi-Wan found both hilarious and odd.

Qui-Gon shared the humor but found it not odd at all.  “Your reputation precedes you, Master Kenobi. You’ve terrorized a whole generation of junior padawans in the classroom and it’s filtered up as respect to the masters who don’t know you. And if I may say so, that negotiation on your first mission was a resounding success; that treaty was the basis of a true change because of your unorthodox tactics. And now you’ve got your own padawan, which does lend a certain weight to your stature.”

“I feel such a fraud—”

“In the field yet? Surely not.”

“No, but teaching Jicky, and a class of second- and third-degree masters.”

“Obi-Wan, you’ve been making peace with people since you were an initiate. You’re one of the most natural negotiators I know. That and whatever you may have learned in our years together has made you one of the Order’s finest mediators, in addition to your other considerable talents. What you must do now is recognize that yourself, and make it part of you. Know your strengths and acknowledge them.”

 _Easier said than done_ , he thought, nodding in agreement.

 

Sex with Obi-Wan continued to be . . . interesting. It was also somewhat more frequent. Obi-Wan was still dancing around the edges of true domming, while giving Qui-Gon a steady diet of being on the bottom, something he hadn’t had since his relationship with Mace. Not that he minded. In truth, he found it exciting to be on the receiving end of this new ferocity. Nor did he mind the spontaneity and inventiveness that Jicky’s presence—or rather her absence—occasioned.

A few days after the end of his negotiation assignment, he returned from class to find the table set for two, complete with wine chilling, and Obi-Wan lounging on the sofa with his legs spread wide and a decided bulge in his trousers.

“Jicky’s working on a project with one of her classmates and won’t be home for a couple of hours, at least,” Obi-Wan informed him with a sly smile as he slid one hand down his pants, “so I thought I’d make us a nice dinner—and have you for an appetizer.”

Qui-Gon glanced at the set table and its covered dishes. “Well that’s out. Where—”

“Here. On this table. Now. I’ll get the lube.”

Swiping a cloth from the kitchen and taking a deep breath, Qui-Gon walked back to the common room on unsteady legs, already so aroused he could barely stand it. This new Obi-Wan seemed to have that effect on him. Years ago he’d seen an attractive young man in an Alderaani arts district, clearly coming from practice or a workout, wearing a somewhat disreputable shirt inscribed with the motto, “Anyone Anywhere Anytime.” Qui-Gon suddenly felt it wouldn’t be inappropriate to have one made for himself that said “Obi-Wan Anywhere Anytime.” The thought made him smile mockingly at himself. “Dirty old man,” he murmured.

He dumped the two datapads sitting on the low table onto the cushions of the sofa, dropped the cloth on the floor, and put down a cushion to spare his knees. He was just in the process of unfastening his leggings when Obi-Wan reappeared, the bottle of lube in one hand.

“Why aren’t you undressed and on your knees yet? I want to watch you get ready for me. Get moving.”

Obstreperous Obi-Wan again. Qui-Gon hid a smile. Legs trembling, he knelt and shoved his leggings and small clothes down his thighs and took the lube from Obi-Wan. After coating two fingers, he reached behind himself and slowly stroked over his opening, circling the muscle and teasing both of them. Behind him, Obi-Wan’s breathing became quicker and more audible. Just as gradually, he worked one finger inside, then two, taking his cue from the rush of Obi-Wan’s breath and the growing taste of spice in the bond.

“Little gods, it’s almost as good watching you finger-fuck yourself as it is having it done,” Obi-Wan choked. Quite soon there was a rustle of cloth behind him as Obi-Wan opened the fastenings of his own trousers and stepped out of them.

Qui-Gon shivered in anticipation. Each time they coupled now it was hard and fast, sometimes almost brutal, Obi-Wan holding him down with a hand on his neck or his back, sometimes holding his wrists behind him, face-down against whatever surface they’d found to even up their heights. There was a frantic quality to it as well, still with an undertone of proving something, but whether to himself or someone else in his head was unclear. In those moments, Qui-Gon was not much more than an object or receptacle, he knew, or perhaps an avatar of Obi-Wan’s torturers.

Secretly, or perhaps not so, he loved it. 

He loved the surrender of control—something he had indulged in infrequently since he and Mace had been lovers. He loved Obi-Wan’s implacability when he was aroused, and he enjoyed the tussle for supremacy that he had ceased trying to win for the time being. Just being told to go to his knees in that voice made harsh with passion made him hard. It sent a shuddering thrill through him to be bent over a chair, their bench, or as now, the low table in the common room, told to lower his trousers, and fucked hard without much preamble.

“Lube.” Obi-Wan’s voice was harsh as he moved up beside Qui-Gon. “Now.”

But instead of lube, Qui-Gon took Obi-Wan’s rampant cock in his mouth, laving it with saliva, then let him go with a pop that made Obi-Wan gasp and shudder and cry out.

One hard hand clenched in his hair pulled his head back.  “Oh, is that what you want instead?” Obi-Wan said softly, with a dark glint in his eye, then roughly pushed him face down onto the table. “Stay there. Don’t move.”

He did, heart hammering, anticipation making him unbearably hard, as Obi-Wan went off to the bedroom again. Qui-Gon couldn’t see what was clinking in his hand when he came back, but he went around behind and dropped to his own knees. A moment later, something large and cold and heavy was pushed into him until a flat flange lay against his opening. He couldn’t guess what it was, beyond something metallic. A new toy perhaps. Whatever it was, it filled him solidly and lay against his prostate waiting for him to move. There was a click, then Obi-Wan reached beneath him and slid a cold metal ring onto his cock and pushed it back against the root. He felt a light chain lying tight against his testicles and realized it must run from the plug to the cock ring. The thought sent a small shudder through him.

Obi-Wan got up again. “Sit up,” he said harshly. “Take off the rest of your clothes. Give me the sash.”

Qui-Gon sat back on his heels and gasped as the plug shifted against his prostate. He looked up to see Obi-Wan smirking, but only briefly.  “Off, I said. Now.” Qui-Gon finished shuffling off his pants, peeled out of his tunics, handed Obi-Wan his sash and folded the rest, and soon knelt naked at their table. Obi-Wan went behind him again and pulled both of his arms back, tied his wrists securely in the middle of his own sash and wrapped the ends around Qui-Gon’s torso, binding his arms as well. It gave him a moment’s pause as he remembered Obi-Wan’s earlier admonition, but there seemed nothing dangerous in this. The knots were tight but not uncomfortable and nothing a little Force application wouldn’t get him out of. More importantly, the bond between them was a little smokey but not bitter; both of them seemed to be enjoying it.

And Obi-Wan wasn’t done. Next, he fixed a collar around Qui-Gon’s neck and snapped another chain to that, stretching down his back to the ring he surmised was on the flange of the plug. Obi-Wan plucked it experimentally and Qui-Gon moaned as the plug shifted again. Finally, Obi-Wan affixed two screw clamps to his nipples, tightening them ever so slowly to just the edge of pain. These too had chains that ran between them and one each to the cock ring and collar, so he was draped in light but sturdy links. With each addition, his own volition slipped away, replaced by the will and desires of his young master.

When it was done, each chain was tugged in turn, pulling at the plug in his rectum, the nipple clamps, his cock ring, teasing. “Is that good, _torikyu_?” his young master murmured in his ear, tugging at one nipple clamp. Qui-Gon whimpered in an odd mixture of pain and pleasure and relief. At this moment he was what his young master had called him: a slave to his own desires and the man who ruled them.  He felt lightheaded with need.

Qui-Gon watched as his young master began to shift the dishes from their dining table to the one in the common room. When he was done, his master knelt down beside Qui-Gon, their dinner now within reach. “Face me,” he ordered. Qui-Gon shuffled around on his knees, gritting his teeth against the sensations in his rectum. In the meanwhile, his young master removed the rest of his own clothing and now held his cock, which had gone a little soft in the interval.

“Here’s your appetizer,” he hissed, pushing Qui-Gon face down into his lap. “Suck me, but don’t make me come. If you do, you won’t get fed, and you won’t be allowed to come, either.”

Qui-Gon whimpered at his young master’s demands, and the surge of blood blocked by his cock ring. Already his balls were aching. He took his young master’s cock in his mouth, obediently.

 

Years ago, on the tenth anniversary of Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship, there had been a meal like this. Or a meal that foreshadowed this. Obi-Wan had been the servant then, still a padawan, and fed Qui-Gon a marvelous meal by hand, in bed, between bouts of decadent sex, costumed in his best blacks. Tonight, it took all Qui-Gon’s skill to bring his young master to that knife-edge of pleasure and then hold him there with nothing but his mouth, to earn a few morsels of (delicious) food and a mouthful of wine, again hand-fed to him. By the time that knife finally cut his young master once too often, Qui-Gon had lost count of how often he’d sucked and nibbled and licked his master’s cock and most of the meal and the wine was gone. He’d been stroked and petted and stimulated with each bite of food or sip of wine, but each time he’d come too close to bringing his master off, he’d been slapped and roughly pushed away. His own body was a minefield of uncompleted circuits wanting a touch to close them. His cock and balls ached, his nipples were throbbing. The collar chafed his neck. And the metal weight in his rectum felt like a fist pressed against his prostate. He wanted, needed, his master’s hands on him. But he awaited his master’s pleasure.

“Make me come,” his master growled harshly at last, a hand fisted in Qui-Gon’s hair. “And swallow it.”

And Qui-Gon did, taking his young master’s cock down his throat, swallowing around him, then pulling back to catch the mouthful of his seed, stretching it out until young master’s hands were tugging hard in his hair as he came, shouting. The orgasm spilled over through their bond and left him nearly sobbing with aftershocks and frustration, the taste of master’s skin and spunk mingling deliciously with food and wine.

His young master sprawled across the floor, catching his breath, then propped himself up on his elbows to observe his quivering slave. “What is it you want, _torikyu_?” he murmured. “You, master. Please—” Qui-Gon whined, until master shushed him with a finger to his lips. “Soon. Soon, _torikyu_ ,” he said, pushing his finger into Qui-Gon’s mouth for him to suck. Finally, he got up and dressed, and began clearing the table as Qui-Gon watched like a starving man.

“Jicky will be back soon. Go wait for me in our room, _torikyu_. I want you sitting on the bench when I come in.”

“Yes, my master,” Qui-Gon murmured, eyes, downcast. The weight in his rectum shifted again as he rocked awkwardly to his feet, his hands still bound. The shifting plug tugged on everything it was attached to as Qui-Gon walked across the room, stimulating him until he could hardly stand on his own trembling legs.

It was a long wait, one that nearly drove him to insanity. More than once, he started to untie himself and only the thought of master’s displeasure and disappointment stopped him. Some part of him realized then that he was deep inside his own submissive’s mindset, a place he hadn’t gone to in decades, where there was only his master’s will and only his master’s approval mattered. It was exhilarating to be this free, but it had a price. He sat obediently on the hard bench and it was all he could do not to rock and shift the weight inside him, not to strip off the clamps and collar and cock ring and give himself relief. But he didn’t. He waited, instead, for his master.

He heard very little in their soundproofed room, waiting in silence. He imagined dishes rattling, the table being moved back into place, water running in the kitchen as his master cleaned up their meal. He heard the master’s padawan arrive and imagined them discussing her day and her homework. Much later, he heard her muffled but cheery “goodnight, Master,” and the closing of her door, and the silence that followed it. He waited some more, in silence, until the weight against his prostate became a torment and then he began to rock against it, the muscles in his anus and rectum spasming around it in a parody of orgasm. He was still rocking frantically, unable to come, when his master appeared.

In desperation, he threw himself at the man’s feet, rubbing his face against them, babbling. “Please, master, please, please, stop, please stop it, please let me come, please fuck me, please—”

His master’s hands were on him then, brushing away the wetness from his cheeks, petting him, stilling him.  “Hush, _torikyu_ , hush. I’ll give you what you want. Be quiet. Or do you want me to gag you?  Would you like that?”

“Yes, master, please, master, just hurry, please, master, please!” he sobbed, writhing on the floor. It was too much, he couldn’t stand it. And every movement he made stimulated some already oversensitive part of himself. But he couldn’t stop moving in a blind effort to come.

A moment later, fingers dug at his jaws until he opened, and pushed a large, hard ball between them. His master unwound his own sash—oh, gods, his own sash!—then and tied it not between his teeth, but over his eyes, blinding him. His head was tipped back and the ends of the blindfold tied around his bound hands. He was pushed roughly over the bench, the clamps digging into his chest. He squirmed to relieve some of the discomfort and was startled by a hard slap on his ass. “Stay where you’re put, or I’ll leave you there for the night just as you are.” The thought terrified him.

Then his master began to touch him, with more slaps and pinches on tender spots until he was writhing again. The chains attached to the nipple clamps were tugged hard enough to make him scream into the gag. “Was that good, _furyo_? Was that good?” his master panted in his ear, leaning over him on the bench. Hard fingers dug at the flange of the plug and pulled it partway out then rammed it in again. It pulled hard on his cock and his nipples too, the chain pinching and rubbing across his testicles. He struggled to get up, to get away, but another hard hand held him against the bench by the back of his neck, already bent at an awkward angle.

“You liked this so much that I’m going to fuck you with it, _furyo_.” The metal plug moved in and out, stretching him brutally, the chains attached to it tugging hard on his genitals and nipples. And still he couldn’t come. He screamed against the ball gag, nothing but a muffled, choked sound coming out, but his master slapped his ass hard for it. Then his master pulled the plug out entirely and dropped it, letting it dangle by its chains as he pushed his cock inside. There was only the cock ring now between him and his orgasm.

His master began to fuck him hard, one hand on the back of his neck, holding him down, one hand fumbling— _oh gods please hurry!_ —with the cock ring, slipping it slowly down his shaft and . . . almost . . . off . . . _yes_ . . .

He roared into the ball gag, into the bond, as hours of arousal exploded in a moment of white ecstasy, catching his young master in the backlash and sending them both over a long precipice into unconsciousness.

 

Obi-Wan was curled up against his back when he found himself again. The chains and collar had all fallen away, the plug and gag and blindfold and sashes around his hands and arms were gone.  Somehow, Obi-Wan had cleaned him up and gotten them both into bed, as well. He felt, well, like someone had tied him up and beaten him, just the way he’d asked them to, only better. And the bond with Obi-Wan was filled with the taste of sweet tea and just a touch of spice. He turned over by fits and starts, groaning softly.

Green eyes met his in the room’s low light. Dangerously green eyes.

“All right?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Yes. Yes. More than all right.” But he couldn’t seem to find the right words for just how right he felt. Sated. Safe. Deeply loved. Cleansed. Purified. All that and more.

“You let me tie you up. I told you not to.” The tone was accusing with a current of fear beneath it. Obi-Wan touched his face, his neck where the collar had abraded the skin. Qui-Gon felt the Force flowing through his beloved’s fingertips, healing him.

“You didn’t tie me very tightly, love. And I was enjoying myself.”

“I’ve never seen you like that. So . . . pliant. So open.”

“No,” Qui-Gon agreed, a little wistfulness in his voice, “you haven’t. I don’t think I’ve gone to that place since I’ve known you. Not since before I was a master.”

“Why did you stop, if you enjoy it?”

“Because I became a master. I couldn’t do both; I couldn’t find the balance, at first, and then I couldn’t—I lost my ability to trust anyone that deeply. After a time, I didn’t need it. I found as much satisfaction in my own strength as I had in letting it go. But it was good—wonderful—to let go with you, after so long.”

Obi-Wan was silent, the frown line between his brows growing deeper while his hands drifted gently over Qui-Gon’s skin. He was being petted again, like some overgrown animal. It felt wonderful too. Qui-Gon stretched and sighed under those hands and nestled closer, wanting Obi-Wan in his arms. He kissed him tenderly. “Are you all right, _kosai_?”

“I don’t know. Am I?” The mischief Qui-Gon loved crept into the green eyes, softening their color.

“I’d say you’re excellent. Did you enjoy it?”

The mischief disappeared, replaced by another frown. “Parts of it, yes. Very much. Seeing you draped in those chains, the need on your face . . . and that mouth of yours . . .gods!”

“And what parts were less satisfactory?”

“When I wanted to hurt you,” Obi-Wan whispered, gone suddenly somewhere deep into his own pain.

“Was it me you wanted to hurt, or what I represented?” Qui-Gon asked, pushing a curtain of hair from Obi-Wan’s face.

“What—what you represented?” His eyes had turned blue-green now, like a troubled sea.

“The authority figures who sent you off to be bait, to be hurt and betrayed.  Who’ve used you so carelessly. I imagine I’m a perfect stand-in for them, having had you tortured once before.”

Obi-Wan gaped at him, fishlike, sputtered for a moment, and then closed his eyes and gripped Qui-Gon tightly as the revelation blossomed in his brain like an artesian spring, physically rocking him. Qui-Gon could almost hear the connections falling into place. He could certainly hear Obi-Wan’s heart pounding.  “That’s it, isn’t it? It’s not her at all.”

“I thought it might be,” Qui-Gon said gently. “I thought some time ago that you were done with her. And it’s much harder to work through your anger at people you’ve always trusted.”

Obi-Wan nodded numbly, still shocked.

“It’s all right, you know,” Qui-Gon told him. “It’s all right to have those feelings.”

“Now you sound like Tianna,” Obi-Wan grumbled. “What happened to ‘fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate,” and so on?”

“Still true in its simplest form. But you can’t just erase those feelings. It’s what you do with them that makes you a Jedi. Face your fears, acknowledge your anger and let them both go and you short-circuit the hate and suffering. You know all this, _kosai_. You practice it every day. What’s new is the focus of those emotions. I’ve been disagreeing with the Council most of my life and there are times I’ve been angry enough with all of them to toss them collectively—even Yoda—through the window. But you’ve always been their best ally, Obi-Wan. Their faithful servant. And this is how you’ve been repaid. No wonder you’re angry. And I’ve no doubt that somewhere inside, you’re afraid they’ll betray you again.”

Obi-Wan pulled away and sat up, drawing his knees up and resting his arms across them, hiding his face in his folded arms. Qui-Gon sat up beside him, wincing as various strained muscles protested, and ran his fingers lightly up and down Obi-Wan’s back. They sat like that for some time, Obi-Wan thinking and Qui-Gon just touching him. Obi-Wan looked up at last, resting his chin on his crossed arms and looking very young.

“It makes me want to send Jicky down to AgriCorps,” he muttered at last.

“To keep her safe? Hardly possible, anywhere, anymore. Especially now.”

“No, I know. Just a wish, that’s all. She’s such a bright little spark. How do you do it, Qui? I mean, how does one do it at all, not you, necessarily. How does one learn to hurt them for their own good?”

“Hopefully, you don’t. You just do what must be done for them, because you want them to live. And give them what comfort you can, afterwards.”

“And if I make the wrong choices for her . . .”

“You will. It’s the nature of the relationship. And that will be her first experience of betrayal, and how she handles that will tell you what kind of Jedi she’ll be. As it told me that you’d be one of the most ethical Jedi that I know.”

Obi-Wan snorted. “Living in my own little black and white world.”

“I think it’s more that you have such high expectations of others, the same ones you have of yourself. And now the Council has finally failed them, in your eyes. It was a lesson Bruck learned earlier than you did.”

“And you?”

Qui-Gon smiled bitterly.  “I didn’t trust my own master, let alone the Council.”

“Yoda?” Obi-Wan said in surprise.

“Dooku. I know I haven’t spoken of him often, but he was my master until I was 17, when he left me and the order, and Yoda finished my training. I’ve always thought of Yoda as my real master. The last several years of my apprenticeship with Dooku were . . . unpleasant. I spent as much time as I could with Yoda, or my friends, even before Dooku left.”

Obi-Wan lay back and pulled Qui-Gon down with him, into his arms again. “No wonder you’re such an old rogue.”

“No wonder indeed. The wonder is how I ended up with two such straight-laced padawans as you and Ayana and not three like Xan.”

“Just lucky, I guess,” Obi-Wan grinned.

“Very lucky,” Qui-Gon agreed.

* * *

Obi-Wan was subdued for days afterwards, not from any kind of black mood, but as though he were thinking, as indeed he probably was, Qui-Gon reflected. More than once, Qui-Gon came in from class to find him meditating with the first stone Qui-Gon had given him in his hand, and watched him come up out of it smiling. He seemed at peace with himself finally.

Their lovemaking changed too, as Obi-Wan’s aggression subsided. He still preferred to initiate it and to be on top, but the ferocity was less than it had been, and more conscious. This Obstreperous Obi-Wan was more familiar, and Qui-Gon was surprised to find he did not miss the other one.

One afternoon, Jicky came charging in the door ahead of her master, radioactive with excitement.

“Master Jinn! I can fly! Watch!”  She launched herself into the air, executed a perfect double flip and came down a little awkwardly just a little too close to one of the tables. Her master, coming in behind her, managed to catch the lamp toppling from it with the Force before it hit the floor and placed it gently on the table once again. Jicky looked mortified.

It was all either Obi-Wan or Qui-Gon could do not to laugh.

“The aerial was excellent,” Qui-Gon told her, “but the landing, I think, needs a little work.”

“And perhaps you’d better confine your flying to the practice rooms, Padawan,” Obi-Wan added. To soften his words, he ruffled her hair affectionately. She turned and hugged him.

“Yes, Master,” she agreed, then ran off to wash up and change her clothes.

“That’s the first stumble she’s made all day,” Obi-Wan confided. “She’s learning to fly beautifully, you were right. And it’s given her more confidence, too. Perhaps an excess of it.”

“I’d say that was more exuberance than over-confidence.”

“She does have a tremendous amount of that,” Obi-Wan agreed, laughing.  “I’ve some good news as well,” he added.  “Del says I can start sparring again. As soon as I’m up to speed in my bladework, I’ll be fit for the field. Jicky’s worked me so hard that I passed everything else in the field cert already.” He looked almost as excited as his padawan, eyes bright, face split in a wide grin.

Qui-Gon found this irresistible and leaned in to kiss him. “That’s wonderful news, _kosai_. Padawans do indeed keep their masters in shape. Would you like a sparring partner?”

“I was hoping you’d say that. I really should start with the remotes though. Let me see how that goes first.”

“Say the word, love.”

Obi-Wan slipped into his arms and leaned up to kiss him, then whispered in his ear: “Philosophy?”

Qui-Gon’s answer was necessarily discreet but in the affirmative.

 

“Come here and I’ll fix your braid, Padawan.” Obi-Wan was sitting on the sofa in the common room with his data pad when Jicky emerged from her own room, dressed in a clean set of practice clothes, her hair still spiky and damp from the fresher.

“Really?” Her face brightened perceptibly at this offer. “Wizard!”

The splints had been off Obi-Wan’s hands for several tens now, but this was the first he’d offered to plait his padawan’s braid. Though Qui-Gon had cut her hair, bound up her tail, and tied her braid for the first time, it had been merely to indicate her new status. There had been no real ceremony between Jicky and her master. They had mutually decided to put it off until his hands had regained enough nimbleness to not make a mess of it, rather than let someone stand in for Obi-Wan in braiding her hair.

“I think I have enough dexterity now. Let’s find out. Sit here.” He turned on the sofa and had her sit between his legs.  Her braid was short yet and it took only a few moments to plait it and slip on the tie. Obi-Wan sat back and surveyed his work critically.  “Not bad,” he decided.  “Tell me what you think.”

Jicky ran her fingers along it and then scampered to the fresher for a look. She came back beaming. “It looks fine, Master. Does this mean we can do the ceremony now?”

“Absolutely.”

“Woohoo!” she yipped, jumping up again.

As always, Obi-Wan found her mood infectious and laughed with her. “It’s going to be a job to teach you any kind of Jedi serenity,” he said, shaking his head.

“You’re probably right, Master. I don’t think I’m very good at being all uptight like you.”

From his seat in front of the com, Qui-Gon ruthlessly choked off a laugh, covering it with a cough.

“And no comments from the rabble,” Obi-Wan called severely. “Otherwise, I suppose I deserve that. Who told you about my nickname?”

“Nickname, Master?” Jicky said just a little too innocently.

Obi-Wan sighed, martyr-like. “Go get a stylus, Padawan.

In a few minutes, Obi-Wan had set up their low table with a blank sheet of fine paper Qui-Gon offered him, along with his own brushes and calligraphy paraphernalia. Jicky, having returned with her stylus, knelt next to him curiously.

“This is usually a verbal oath, Jicky, recited as the master cuts his padawan’s hair and plaits her braid for the first time. Master Qui-Gon and I added this written part because the world we come from has a long tradition of writing out the oaths of fealty between masters and retainers or apprentices. I thought you and I might continue the tradition. Does that suit you?”

“Yeah, I’d like that,” she agreed, eyes shining. “I don’t know how to do calligraphy though.”

“That’s just a fancy name for very good writing. I can teach you later, if you’d like, but I think if you use your very best penmanship, that will do just fine.”

Jicky nodded her agreement, then watched as her master smoothed out the sheet of paper and prepared his ink and brush. When all was ready, he dipped his brush in the black ink and began to recite the Master’s Oath as he wrote it out.

“I, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Knight, born Ben-Zhao Lars, ninetieth initiate of House Kenobi, do take as my padawan learner, Jinekiah Salis. . . .” The oath was short and it took only a few minutes to write it out, but Obi-Wan gave it all of his attention so each character of Basic had a little decorative flourish in it. Then he signed his name, pulling out all the calligraphic tricks he knew. Jicky looked at it with awe.

“That’s beautiful, Master,” she whispered when he was done. “Mine won’t look anywhere near as nice as that.”

“Those flourishes are to honor you, Padawan, not just to make it look nice. They’re the best I can do. Giving me the best you can do honors me. That’s what matters.”

“You’ll teach me how to use a brush like that too, later?”

“I will, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please,” she said very solemnly, and then bent to her own task with her stylus. “I, Jinekiah Salis, accept Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Knight, born Ben-Zhao Lars, ninetieth initiate of House Kenobi, as my master. . . .” Jicky recited as she wrote out the words slowly and carefully in her best hand and signed her name.

When she was done, Obi-Wan unwound her braid again and combed it out, then split the short strands into three parts. “One for the master, one for the padawan, one for the Force that binds them together,” he said quietly and began to braid them again. He slipped on the junior padawan’s tie at the end and bowed gravely to his apprentice. Jicky returned it with equal gravity.

“Thank you, Master,” she whispered. “You’re the best.”

Obi-wan held out his arms to her and she slipped into them, hugging him fiercely. He hoped he’d be able to live up to her expectations, at least for a while.


End file.
